Robert Knightly: The cold room

I tried it the easy way first. I lifted Aslan to my shoulders and attempted to move with my arms alone. But I couldn’t raise him more than a few inches. His weight kept rolling away from me and the wet plastic wasn’t helping either. I would have to squat down, to use my legs to gain momentum, to toss Aslan onto the pier with one quick push.

My first attempt landed me on my ass with Aslan sprawled across my lap. At another time, I would have found the situation grisly, or even humorous, but I wasn’t feeling much of anything. There was the river and the pier and Aslan’s body. There was a ritual to be performed that involved all three, performed as written before, and I had no energy, physical or emotional, to spare.

I took more care on my next attempt. Once I got Aslan over my shoulder, I tested his weight, eventually sliding my right hand, palm up, from his waist to his sternum. Then I wrapped my left hand in the plastic surrounding his thighs and squatted down, making a conscious effort to center my spine between my ankles. When I was sure I had it right, I pushed up as hard as I could, barely aware of my closed eyes and the scream that issued from my lips, a scream that was lost on the wind before it reached my ears.

Aslan’s head and back went up and over the pier, but I had to get under his legs to keep him from sliding back down. We hung there for a moment, my arms wrapped around his thighs, my head pressed into his groin, until I finally inched his hips past the tipping point and the pier took his weight. A moment later, I was standing beside him, his ankles in my hands.

Splinters of wood tore at the trash bags enclosing Aslan’s body as I dragged him the length of the pier. I assumed they were also tearing into his flesh, and that he was leaving traces of himself behind, but I no longer had the energy to lift him. On the river, the darkness was near absolute and the running waters of the outgoing tide might have been the heaving back of some prehistoric beast.

For reasons I couldn’t know, and for a time I couldn’t begin to measure, I stood where I was, staring out at the rain and the river. I was soaked, now, every article of clothing, every inch of my flesh. Water streamed from my hair into my eyes and down the back of my neck. As far as I could tell, I offered no resistance, my body a mere conduit for an element seeking nothing more than its own level.

I kept thinking that I should feel something, anger, maybe, or satisfaction. But when I finally squatted next to Aslan’s body and rolled him over the edge of the pier, I felt nothing at all. I handled him like he was so much trash.

Aslan hit the water head first and his body went completely under. I expected him to pop back up, figuring there was enough air trapped in his shroud to keep him afloat, at least initially. But the East River claimed Aslan as utterly as the whale claimed Jonah. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, Aslan would be disgorged. Or maybe the ocean would fully digest him. It didn’t really matter that much to me, one way or the other. The prison doors had opened and my thoughts were already turning back to the living. I was done now. I could go home. I could try to pick up the pieces.

Aslan hit the water head first and his body went completely under. I expected him to pop back up, figuring there was enough air trapped in his shroud to keep him afloat, at least initially. But the East River claimed Aslan as utterly as the whale claimed Jonah. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, Aslan would be disgorged. Or maybe the ocean would fully digest him. It didn’t really matter that much to me, one way or the other. The prison doors had opened and my thoughts were already turning back to the living. I was done now. I could go home. I could try to pick up the pieces.

Aslan hit the water head first and his body went completely under. I expected him to pop back up, figuring there was enough air trapped in his shroud to keep him afloat, at least initially. But the East River claimed Aslan as utterly as the whale claimed Jonah. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, Aslan would be disgorged. Or maybe the ocean would fully digest him. It didn’t really matter that much to me, one way or the other. The prison doors had opened and my thoughts were already turning back to the living. I was done now. I could go home. I could try to pick up the pieces.